


Four Last Songs: Photograph

by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing)



Series: Four Last Songs [2]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Drinking, F/M, Friendship, Gen, M/M, PTSD, READ THE END NOTES IF YOU NEED TRIGGER TAGS BECAUSE THEY ARE SPOILERS, SPOILERY TAGS ARE IN THE END NOTES PLEASE READ THEM FIRST, Snarky music and film reviews, aftermath of death, mention of drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-10 00:17:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12287235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cpenguing/pseuds/Celebratory%20Penguin
Summary: PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS IN THE END NOTES IF YOU NEED TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS BEFORE READING. I don't put spoilers in the tags because they're, well, spoilers.Second in a four-part series. This one deals with the aftermath of the events in "The Art of Dying."Chapter One: John - April 18, 1970Chapter Two: Ringo - September 9, 1970Chapter Three: George - April 9, 1971This story is an AU. The timeline does not line up perfectly with events the Beatles' RL history. Some events still occur but at different times and for different reasons. Other events don't happen, or happen to different people.This is not, by any means, what I "wished had happened." It's an exploration of how the Beatles' mythology would have been different had John not been the first to die.





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

> Again: If you need certain "trigger tags" then please read the end notes for a list that would have been spoilers if they had been placed at the beginning. PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION.

**IF YOU NEED WARNING LABELS, THEN PLEASE READ THE END NOTES BEFORE DECIDING WHETHER TO READ THIS STORY.**

 

 

> Melody Maker  
>  April 18, 1970  
>  Four Last Songs: Beatles - Brilliant or Bust?
> 
> In a hasty attempt to memorialize the late Paul McCartney, his former bandmates quickly cobbled together a tribute EP. The surviving Beatles either reworked existing tracks from their as-yet-unreleased solo albums or hastily put things together in order to get the EP out in barely over a week. The result is "Four Last Songs." While the effort is heartfelt, it is extremely uneven.
> 
> Side One gets off to a surprisingly rollicking start with a heavy-hitting George Harrison song, "The Art of Dying." Harrison had begun backing tracks just a few days prior to McCartney's death. Reports are that he went into the studio two days afterwards with a backing group of some of the finest musicians on the planet and laid down this song in a matter of hours. The lyrics, some of Harrison's most profound, deal with the concept of death and reincarnation. Many have wondered if the couplet "There's nothing Sister Mary can do/To keep me here with you" might be a reference to McCartney's late mother, Mary, a nurse, but we may never know the answer. Harrison, always a reluctant interviewee, has refused to say anything to this writer other than "I didn't write it for Paul, specifically, although something might have been in the back of my mind at the time. I did sing it for him. That's what counts. Hare Krishna."
> 
> Singing his heart out in the second cut of the EP is Ringo Starr. "Photograph" was something he'd been working on for a while but needed Harrison's help to complete. Recorded the day after Harrison's song, Ringo's contribution is an updated take on the Irving Berlin classic "What'll I Do?" Whether Ringo originally meant to sing the part of a jilted man hanging onto a single photograph of his beloved, the version he recorded three days after McCartney took his own life is a charming and wistful - if rather limited, vocally - tribute to an old friend gone before his time.
> 
> The second side begins with "Maybe I'm Amazed," a song McCartney had planned for his eponymous solo album. We, the listeners, are the ones who are amazed: at the virtuosity McCartney displayed on all the instruments, at the deceptively simple lyrics, at the soaring melodic lines performed with seemingly effortless ease by a voice that was actually crying out in pain. The band got it right with this choice, a song that will forever crystallize all the things that made McCartney the voice of his generation.
> 
> Would that they had left the EP there.
> 
> The final song is one by John Lennon, also recorded alone. It suffers by comparison to McCartney's polished work. "Imagine" is an ethereal number, pretty enough, sung in John's reediest ballad style and accompanied by a rather simplistic piano part. He sings of notions that will not comfort the bereaved (Imagine there's no heaven) as well as ideas that are frankly hypocritical coming from someone living in wealthy seclusion (Imagine no possessions). Perhaps we should not expect better from the man whose response to his closest friend's violent death was "What a bloody mess," but we had needed more and are disappointed indeed.
> 
> We can only hope that the delayed release of the film and album, both entitled "Let it Be," will prove more worthy as a postscript to a groundbreaking band and a tribute to a gifted and hardworking artist taken from us too soon.
> 
>  

John awoke to utter silence.

He wasn't entirely sure how much time he had spent asleep, cocooned in the cool darkness of the bedroom. He remembered recording "Imagine" in his personal studio, but other than that his sense of time was vague. Yoko had been waiting on him hand and foot, had supervised his food and medications, and had removed the television, radio, and stereo from the room so John could have peace and quiet. "I've told the others that you're in seclusion, darling. Just rest," she had told him as she passed him another of the pills that kept him in a blessed state of dreamless slumber.

Somewhere in the midst of the sedated fogginess, however, John's brain started to rebel against all the inactivity. He began secreting the pills under his tongue and spitting them out once Yoko left the room.

He hoped that the water system of Weybridge could handle what he was flushing down the toilet, or the entire village would be stoned out of their minds.

In another lifetime he would have found that image amusing.

What time was it? For that matter, what day was it? Frowning, John patted the nightstand until he found his glasses. There were no newspapers in the room. Nothing. Where was the fucking telephone? He needed to talk to someone. He needed to know the countdown.

How many days ago had Paul still been alive?

"Yoko?" John called, his voice creaking from lack of use. There was no response, so he tried again. Still there was no answer. Perhaps she had gone out, in which case there would be no harm in trying to bring himself back to the land of the living.

Bad, bad metaphor. His eyes stung with bitter tears that he blinked back. He sat up against the headboard and closed his eyes, breathing deeply and wondering if he'd ever have another normal moment again.

When he saw something moving near his bed he began to wonder if the drugs were still in his system. The vision was golden, delicate. Beautiful. A scent of patchouli and roses emanated from the figure, overcoming John's deprived senses. He blinked, confused, and whispered, "Paul?"

"No, John," came the vision's feminine voice. John straightened his glasses and peered again.

"Pattie."

She came closer, perching like a timid bird at the edge of his bed. In her hands was a crystal vase holding a bouquet of roses, deep red and so fragrant that John's head spun a little. "I brought you these," she said quietly.

"Okay. Uh, thanks." John motioned for her to set the vase on the nightstand. Her presence puzzled him. "What are you doing here? I mean...?"

Pattie gave him a sad little smile. "George wanted to set up a meeting with you and Ringo today at Friar Park to talk about the 'Let it Be' project. Yoko said you weren't up to it, so she's standing in for you. I thought I'd take my chances."

"How'd you get past Abner and Jethro?" John had nicknamed the bodyguards after two American pop-culture hicks; he neither knew nor cared who they really were.

This time, Pattie's smile brightened her eyes. "George sent along an autographed photo of the Beatles for me to use as a bribe."

"George has an autographed photo of the Beatles?" John couldn't imagine why he would keep such a thing.

"Well, he has photos, and he's been forging all of your signatures on fan mail for years now, so..."

They shared a giggle. God, it felt so good to laugh, even for a moment.

"What day is it?" John asked groggily.

"It's the eighteenth."

Nine days ago, Paul had still been alive.

Pattie turned serious again, those huge blue eyes brimming with sympathetic tears. "I'm sorry you weren't well enough to come to the funeral."

John gasped. "When was it?"

"Two days ago. Yoko said she told you but you weren't able to make it." Pattie tilted her head quizzically. "John? Did she really tell you?"

He shook his head. Christ, he hadn't shown up at Paul's funeral. Tears threatened to pour out of his sleepy, swollen eyes. "Oh, fuck, Pattie. I'd have been there, you know I'd have been there, but..."

Would he, though? Would he have been brave enough to face his friends, to see the pity in their eyes? Perhaps Yoko had done him a favor by keeping him away.

Pattie leaned over and hugged him. He inhaled her fragrance greedily, shampoo and patchouli and a touch of the sandalwood oil George wore, as her blonde hair fell smoothly around him like a veil.

John wiped his nose on the sleeve of his pyjama top, then let Pattie go with a gentle squeeze of her slim shoulders. "Tell me everything that's been going on. I want to know everything."

"Well," began Pattie, "it's a lot. Mal brought Linda and the girls back to London."

Groaning at the thought of what Linda must be going through, John asked, "How is she?"

"Not good," Pattie whispered. "But her father's with her, taking care of things. Linda got to see Paul, privately of course. Maureen made sure they did a good job with hair and makeup and all that - she didn't want him to look like something from Madame Tussaud's, she said."

When John's hands started to shake, Pattie grasped them and chafed them between her warm palms. "Are you sure you want me to go on?"

He nodded.

"Some asshole at the mortuary took a picture and got fired for selling it to the Daily Fail. Then there's the Paul Is Dead gang, who've now decided that Paul Is Alive and are going mad trying to prove it with insane clues that don't make any sense."

John huffed a laugh. "You can't win. Fucking fans, anyway."

"Yeah. Maureen's been keeping a book of clippings and photos - not THAT one, though - for you to get caught up when you're feeling up to it." She paused, her eyes unfocused for a moment. "So. There was a service at Highgate - and this is where it gets weird."

 _GETS weird_ , John thought, shivering at the memory of Paul's face as he said John's life was flashing before his eyes.

"I know, love," Pattie said sympathetically. "But he's not actually buried there. We had a crowd, and a coffin, and all, but that's not where he is." She took a deep breath. "He's buried in one of the gardens at Friar Park."

John's heart thundered. How was that possible? How could Paul, his Paul, be mouldering in someone's back yard, even if that yard was forty acres around? He deserved a choir of marble angels right in the center of Highgate, not an anonymous hole in the ground.

"It was actually Peter Brown's idea," Pattie continued. "He was afraid that the fans would make a mess, or worse, so George turned the back lodge into...a chapel."

"A Hare Krishna chapel?" John asked, wondering if he might be in the midst of a particularly realistic yet nonsensical dream.

"Anglican. Ringo wound us up pretty hard, but George reminded him that Paul loved irony. Anyway, having a chapel meant we could also have a 'churchyard,' and that's where Paul's grave really is. George, Ringo, Mal, Peter, Neil, and of course Mike, were the pallbearers. The ceremony was quiet, full of love."

Perhaps it was better, then, for Paul to be with people who cherished his memory, instead of surrounded by snooty strangers who would've treated him like a social-climbing Northern yob.

"It's beautiful there," Pattie continued with a gesture toward the nightstand. "These roses came from the bushes George planted for him. So they're kind of from Paul, in a way."

John turned to the vase, admiring the perfection of each velvety red petal, reveling in the old-fashioned scent. They were vividly, extravagantly beautiful. They were alive.

Just as Paul had been nine days ago.  
  
Before.

"What are the papers saying? Are they...do they think...do YOU think..." He looked down, acutely aware of Pattie's intense, compassionate gaze. "Is this my fault?"

"John! No!" Pattie scooted even nearer, placing her palms on John's face. "He was unhappy, more than any of us could've known. George saw him just a few days before and he hadn't a clue. None of us did."

"It's not like Paul to send out signals," John sighed. "Or rather, it wasn't. Shit, being out of it for this long...I haven't had time to get used to the idea."

"Well, we're all struggling in our own ways."

The unhappiness that permeated Pattie's husky voice made John look at her, really look at her. He saw the dark circles beneath her eyes, so dark that not even expert make-up could cover them. Her cupid's-bow lips turned down; perhaps they hadn't smiled in ages and had forgotten how to make that shape. She was pale, too, as if something horrible and acidic had washed all the color from her flesh.

"Pattie?" John covered her hands with his and gave her a gentle, encouraging smile. "What else is going on?"

Again, John sensed the birdlike panic in Pattie's small frame. She fluttered out of his grasp and sat further away, folding her white hands like wings in her lap. She didn't meet his eyes when she spoke.

"Linda's pregnant. She was planning to tell Paul when he came to Scotland the night...that night."

"In the midst of death, we are in life," John deliberately misquoted, unsure whether to feel joy or misery. His stomach ached at the thought. If Linda had only told Paul ten days ago, then nine days ago maybe, maybe...

When he cast a glance at Pattie, he saw her biting her lip as if holding something back. "C'mon, Pattie," he cajoled. "There's more. Tell us."

"Maureen's pregnant, too. She and Linda are both due in November."

"Okay, but that's not all, is it?" He leaned over, peering into Pattie's eyes. "Well, that's Linda and Maureen sorted. Now all that's missing are Yoko and you. Did George finally plant something besides roses in your garden?"

"That's not funny!" Pattie exclaimed as she pressed her hand over her mouth. Horrified, John watched as tears spilled down her cheeks, over her fingers, over the tiny bricklike shapes that formed her wedding band. "We've been trying, we've tried for years now, and every time, every bloody time we think that it's finally worked..."

Jesus. He hadn't known. Not that George, private man that he is, would have spilled his guts over something like this. Not to him, anyway. He wondered if George had ever told Paul, back when the two of them were still thick as thieves, or if he'd unburdened himself to Ringo's kindly soul.

He wondered when he'd won the title of "World's Worst Mate."

If "won" was the correct word.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, the words bitter and unfamiliar on his tongue.

Pattie was beginning to pull herself back together, her index fingers carefully wiping away the mascara that had pooled in the already-dark places beneath her eyes. "No, no, I'm supposed to be helping you, not the other way round. We'll be okay. It's just that everyone's emotions are running high right now."

Now John wondered if the way Paul suddenly slammed into his thoughts would always feel as if he'd been shot in the back.

"You've done me a world of good, Mrs. Harrison." She'd always had a kind spirit, less calculating than Linda or Yoko, less earthy than Maureen or Cynthia. Cynthia. Julian. "Julian?" John asked hoarsely, an image of his beautiful boy suddenly filling his head. God, Julian had always adored Paul.

"We told Cynthia that you couldn't make it to Friar Park. She came and brought Julian with her. He's always been such a serious, grown-up little chap, he was so sweet to little Heather and kept hushing Zak and Jason when they got too restless." She widened her eyes - Christ, how did George deny this woman anything? - and said, "You should go see him. He really misses you."

_Look at these press photos, John. Paul holds Julian's hand more than you do. That's not right._

He and Cynthia had exchanged hot words over this, mostly because John felt such shame. After some tears on both sides, John had made promises. And had failed to keep any of them.

Failed.

Failed.

Failed.

Fidgeting with the edges of his blanket, John swallowed and nodded.

Pattie's nimble fingers pulled a cigarette case out of her handbag. "Do you mind?" she asked as she held it up.

"Not if you share. I'm gasping; haven't had a fag since...well, since." John took the profferred cigarette with a thankful sigh and lit it with Pattie's lighter, holding the flame steady so she could light hers as well. He inhaled the smoke, letting it fill his lungs, wishing it would fill his head.

"I only have ciggies, John," Pattie teased. "I know that LOOK. After getting busted, we're very careful what we carry on us." She took a deep drag and released the smoke from her nostrils. "But if you come to the house, we can all sit around and get relaxed together. It's been forever. I miss it."

"I'd like that," John said softly.

John did miss it, would miss it for the rest of his life. Pattie had meant well, bless her. Without Paul, though, there was no "we can all sit around" that would ever feel like anything but looking at the raw stump where a limb had once been.

***


	2. Ringo

> ASSOCIATED PRESS  
>  LONDON, UNITED KINGDOM  
>  September 9, 1970 
> 
> Even as The Beatles' final album and film is scheduled to premiere this evening, a bizarre footnote has occurred in the tragic story of Paul McCartney's death on April 9th. Last night, a group of Beatles conspiracy theorists broke into the private section of London's Highgate Cemetery in an apparent attempt to disinter Mr. McCartney's remains. 
> 
> The furor over the rumors of Mr. McCartney's death prior to his untimely demise has spilled over into a new theory that the musician is actually still alive. When the coffin was being prepared for re-interment, it was learned that there was in fact no body within. 
> 
> According to a sworn affidavit from one of the alleged graverobbers, the purpose of the nighttime raid was "to prove once and for all that Paul McCartney faked his death. When we opened the coffin lid and saw the sandbags instead of a corpse, we had our proof." 
> 
> Peter Brown, the Beatles' former assistant, made this statement: "The Highgate burial with the empty coffin was intended to thwart precisely this sort of ghoulish behaviour. All of us who knew and loved Paul wished his final resting place be private and undisturbed, and therefore he has been buried in a location that will not be disclosed until further notice." 
> 
> The coroner's report stated that Mr. McCartney, twenty-seven years of age, took his own life with a single gunshot wound to the head. Two people close to Mr. McCartney identified his remains: former Beatle George Harrison and Maureen Cox Starkey, wife of former Beatle Richard (Ringo) Starkey, who supervised McCartney's clothing, hair and makeup during the preparations for the private viewing by the widow, Linda Eastman McCartney. 
> 
> Mrs. McCartney, who had just learned that she was pregnant at the time of her husband's death, later suffered the miscarriage of a baby boy. She declined to be interviewed for this article. 

Ringo slammed the article down, anger creasing his features as his hands creased the newspaper. "Why is this happening? Hasn't Linda suffered enough?" 

Maureen, who had been reading over her husband's shoulder, pointed to a second column. "Evidently, not as much as John and Yoko. Read this!" 

> A private investigator hired by John Lennon's wife, Yoko Ono, to protect her husband was on the scene of the tragedy. A photograph taken moments after the fatal shooting surfaced later that day, but eight-millimeter film allegedly exists as well, which has not yet been seen. The aforementioned perpetrator brought up the lack of film evidence as part of his claim that the death was a hoax. 
> 
> When asked today if she was convinced that McCartney had indeed died, Ms. Ono stated, "I can say unequivocally that Paul McCartney died on the front steps of our home, causing my husband and myself incalculable pain and suffering, along with damage to the house itself." 

This time it was Maureen who tossed the newspaper aside in disgust. "What kind of a beast worries about bloodstains at a time like this?" 

Ringo leaned back against Maureen as he had done so many times in the horrible months after Paul's death. She ran her fingers through his long hair and gently massaged his scalp. Ringo sighed. "How long do you reckon it'll take, before they figure it out?" he asked. 

Maureen kissed the top of his head. "I don't know, love. They'll comb every churchyard in England first, so it could be years before it even occurs to them to look at Friar Park. And even if they did, all those rose bushes would throw them off, no matter how many Pattie lops off and brings to John."

Because John had been so grateful for her first visit, Pattie had started taking "Paul's roses" to him once a week. John's bodyguards had taken a fancy to Pattie and the little gifts she brought them, so they let her in whether or not Yoko was home. While annoying Yoko had not been part of the plan, George considered it a fringe benefit, and he bought Pattie a brand-new Porsche to make her drive more pleasant. 

Today would not be pleasant. They were all going to London for the premiere of "Let it Be," God help them, and would then hang around a suite at the Dorchester to await the reviews. Considering the bollocking John had taken over "Four Last Songs," and his subsequent temper tantrums, Ringo looked forward to these reviews only slightly less than he would greet news of his own execution. 

What a fucking joke. 

"Are you sure you're up to coming, Mo?" Ringo asked as he poured himself a whiskey. Maureen was heavy with their third child and always seemed weary. 

"And miss Linda and Yoko in the same room? Wild horses couldn't drag me away." She took a sip of ginger ale, pulled a face, and set the glass aside. "Of all the times not to be able to get bladdered." 

"I know, sweetheart." Ringo pulled her down for a kiss and touched the side of her face. Her skin was always warm when she was this far along; she was like a furnace every night in bed. "The car will be here soon, so we'd best have a wash and get done up." 

Maureen smiled sadly. She was doing that a lot these days, Ringo mused as he got into the shower and turned the water up as hot as he could stand it. Maureen's memories of Paul were like George's: tainted by the sight of him, after. After. Ringo shampooed his hair, wishing he could wash "after" right out of his hair like the old song. 

He fucking hated "after." 

Ringo put on his best suit and plainest tie. Not much of a celebration, this premiere, compared to the other Beatle movies. It was more like a funeral. He glanced at Maureen, who was fumbling with the clasp of her pearl necklace. "Here, love, let me," he said, fitting the two halves together expertly and smoothing down the hair at her nape. 

Their boys were at a friend's house for the night, so there was nothing to do but get into the car and be driven to London. Ringo downed another whiskey on the way and would have had one more except that it wouldn't be fair to Maureen to keep on boozing when she couldn't even have a sip. 

When they got to the Pavilion, they were so blinded by flashbulbs that it was hard to get inside. They immediately bumped into George and Pattie, also dressed somberly, also looking shell-shocked. These days George was distant, absent even when he was present, weighed down by whatever inner demons haunted him. Pattie said he spent his days chanting and gardening, rarely touching his guitar unless Eric dropped by. 

Pattie and Maureen embraced, clumsily, and Maureen groused, "I look like a cow!" 

"You look like Parvati," George replied, and to their blank looks he added, "Goddess of fertility." 

"Well, at least it's good," Maureen said. "Any sign of John and Her Highness?" 

"I think they came in before us. We're waiting for Linda," Pattie said. She was delicate and sylphlike in her black velvet pantsuit, her hair up in a simple knot, her face nearly free of makeup. 

There was a rush of cool air as the door opened, and Linda stepped in with Heather and Mary on either side of her. She seemed more vibrant than she had on the difficult day of Paul's burial, but she was thin, thinner even than Pattie, and there was no light in her blue eyes. She smiled wanly at the others and accepted their embraces, looking grateful when Ringo did a silly sleight-of-hand with a coin behind Mary's ear that made the girls smile. 

She looked around, obviously scouting for John. George said, "They've gone in, so we probably should, too," and offered his arm to Linda, who took it gratefully. Ringo scooped Mary up in his strong arms and made an exaggerated bow to Heather as he reached for her hand. Maureen and Pattie followed behind and chatted softly about the new baby. 

An usher held the curtain open to their private box. Sitting right in the middle of the front row were Yoko and John, both dressed in bright white. 

"Is there any situation where she won't make herself the center of attention?" complained George under his breath. 

Sighing, Ringo decided to break the ice as best he could, standing in front of Yoko and shaking her hand. She had tiny hands, cold, with soft skin and long, hard nails at the end of her slender fingers. She shook hands with the others but only glanced at Pattie's outstretched hand and did not offer hers in return. "Pattie," was all she said, but there was a world of disdain in the two syllables. Evidently she was even more irritated about the roses than she'd let on.

Ringo touched John's arm and tried to get his attention. "How are you, John?" he asked, searching John's eyes to determine if he was in a drug fog or not. His pupils seemed normal, but his breathing came quick and shallow as if he were about to run away in panic. 

Yoko reached for her husband and grasped his hand tightly, possessively. "Just relax, John," she said into his ear. "It'll be over soon." 

"No," John whispered, looking at the giant "Let it Be" poster superimposed on the movie screen. "It'll never be over."

To Ringo's utter amazement, Yoko moved to the side so that Linda and the girls could fit in the front row together. She took Linda's hands in her own and said, "I'm so sorry to hear that you lost the baby. I understand that pain all too well." 

"We didn't lose the baby," Heather piped up, pointing at Mary. "She's right here." 

Linda shook her head and gently put her finger over Heather's lips. "I'm sorry - I didn't tell her." 

"No, of course not," Yoko agreed. She patted Heather's head and smiled as Mary toddled up to her, tangling her tiny fingers in Yoko's thick mane. "She looks like Paul," Yoko commented. "Don't you think so, John?" 

John approached Linda while the others watched intently. He reached out for Mary then flinched, withdrawing his hands and waiting for Linda's approval. She nodded at him with a faint smile that grew brighter when John picked the little girl up and cradled her in his arms. His fingers traced the pretty features, so like Paul's but cast in a feminine mold. Dark hair framed her chubby, heart-shaped face, and the slightly tilted eyes shimmered with the same jewel tones as her father's. 

Ringo felt Maureen sob quietly next to him and saw Pattie slip her fingers around Maureen's wrist to steady her. The crowd below them surged noisily into their seats, but everyone in the box was riveted to the sight of John leaning over this tiny girl and giving her forehead a gentle kiss. 

"What about me, Uncle John?" Heather's voice broke the stillness. John, flushed, handed Mary back to her mother and crouched in front of Heather for a hug. He ruffled her gold hair as she giggled at him. 

The lights began to dim and Ringo wanted a drink. 

He wanted several.

The longer the film ran, the more drinks Ringo wanted. As much as he'd hated making the movie, watching it in the wake of Paul's death was a million times worse. Every time Paul's careworn face with its scruffy, unkempt beard appeared, twenty feet high, Ringo felt as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. He wasn't the only one, either. George actually got up and left the box for a few minutes during the scene where he and Paul had been arguing over a guitar solo, and when he returned he was pale and his eyes were bloodshot. John's shoulders shook with helpless sobs during the entire "Two of Us" segment. 

Watching the band disintegrating, watching PAUL disintegrating, was heartrending. Even the fun they'd had on the roof had collapsed in on itself. Watching Paul play with such verve and sing with such giggly, infectious joy was almost worse than watching him sulk in the studio. When he interacted with John in performance - without Yoko perching on an amp between them, judgmental and disdainful - it was the old Beatle Magic again. Knowing it was gone forever, as far as Ringo was concerned, was like losing Paul all over again.

By the end of the movie, there wasn't a dry eye in the box. "Now I know why Pattie didn't bother with makeup," Maureen mumbled as she checked her smeared mascara in the mirror of her compact. "Christ, I didn't cry this much at the funeral." 

The group, stunned and silent, made its way out the back of the building to where two limousines waited to take them to the Dorchester. Ringo and Maureen got in with Linda and the little girls, leaving George and Pattie to deal with Yoko and John. _Better them than me_ , Ringo thought. They rode in silence, save for Mary's tired whimpering and the low murmurs Linda made to comfort her. 

They all met up in the ridiculous Harlequin Penthouse. Ringo had rented it so he, Maureen, George, and Pattie could be in the same suite. John and Yoko would be on a different floor, thank God, and Linda decided early on that staying at Cavendish would be less traumatic for her daughters.

All kinds of food that Ringo didn't like were laid out on the dining room table, but he noted with gratitude that the booze was the very, very finest. He poured himself a double scotch and observed the rest of the party. 

Pattie was doing her best to break the dour mood, flitting from one guest to the next with food and drink, since Maureen was far too tired to play hostess. She piled the prettiest, most tempting treats on small plates and set them between Heather and Mary. The girls giggled and fed each other while Linda watched, her eyes glazing over as she downed another glass of champagne. 

John and Yoko, wrapped mostly in one another, declined the food altogether. "She acts as if I'd poisoned it," complained Pattie as she passed Ringo. From her handbag Yoko produced a bag of what looked like garden soil, from which she and John took little handfuls and nibbled. Periodically, John leered at the heaping plates of cheese and sweets and sighed.

For some reason, Mary seemed fascinated by John. Ringo wondered if it was the white clothing that drew her attention, or if perhaps she'd gotten some of her father's soul along with his looks. She wandered over to John, a piece of chocolate cake in her hand, and offered it to him with the gravity of a princess. 

"No, no," Yoko said, intercepting the gooey present and holding it away from John. "We don't eat chocolate. We don't eat sugar at all. Sugar causes--" 

"Oh, bloody hell, Yoko," Maureen interjected. "She's not even two yet, leave her alone. A piece of cake's not like heroin." 

Whoa, Ringo thought as Yoko's face turned red. That hit a nerve. 

Yoko stood up, dropping the cake on the floor. "Excuse me. I'll go down and wait for the evening papers." 

John pinched Mary's cheek and popped the cake into his mouth, making an exaggerated moan of delight. Mary crawled into his lap and curled up with her head against his heart. 

"If she'd been a boy," Linda whispered, "Paul wanted to name him John." 

Ringo blinked rapidly. He glanced at Maureen, who gaped back at him. 

"Ah, Linda," John said softly. 

"If I hadn't lost...he would've been John Paul. He felt so strongly..." She dabbed at her eyes, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, I'm bringing the party so far down. But you look so good with her." She fumbled in her handbag and pulled out a small camera. "May I?" 

John simply nodded. He held the little girl close, smiling down at her as Linda composed the shot and took several versions. 

George finished his drink and set it down harder than seemed necessary. He leaned over with his hands on his thighs and fixed John with a dark stare. "So, John. How's Julian?"

"George!" hissed Pattie, but he paid no attention to her. 

"Julian is fine," John said in a neutral voice that very few people would recognize as a danger signal. 

George, however, seemed to take the hint and he backed down with a curt nod. 

"You really are getting terribly thin, John," Maureen said kindly. "Come over whenever you get a chance. Zak and Jason ask about you all the time, and you can have a smoke and eat whatever you'd like." 

John looked tempted. A strange light came into his eyes, the one he used to get when he was about to talk the other three into sneaking out of their hotel on tour, or go into a bathroom at Abbey Road and get high. It took ten years off his haggard face. 

"Please," Ringo added before he had a chance to stop himself. "I've missed you." He looked around the room at the people who had been so very important for so long, and he felt his throat constrict. "I've missed all of you." The alcohol singing in his veins robbed him of his Northern Lad inhibitions. "It hurts. It hurts to be without you." 

"Jesus, Ritchie, I'm sorry," John muttered. He got up and loped over to Ringo, throwing his arms around him and holding him tightly. Ringo looked over John's shoulder at George. _Please. Just this once, put love before pride._

George snaked his long arms around both men. Ringo could feel John relax into the embrace, and for a moment he thought everything would be all right. 

Then Yoko returned with the Evening Standard and passed it to them. 

> The Evening Standard  
>  September 9, 1970  
>  Movie Review: Let it Be - Please
> 
> Tonight, five months to the day after the tragic loss of Paul McCartney, the Beatles premiered their film "Let it Be" and released the album of the same name.
> 
> Even without the undercurrent of sadness due to McCartney's death, the film is a disjointed, unpleasant mess. With no apparent plot - and therefore, no real resolution - the movie drags on at a glacial pace with only minimal musical respite. We already know the immediate outcome, with the group playing a half-frozen concert atop the roof of the Apple building for a handful of friends and some bemused bankers. We also know the final act, where McCartney took his own life in front of John Lennon. 
> 
> Every time McCartney tries to get the group to cooperate, he is met with negative responses. Starr looks at him with bored, empty eyes. Harrison argues with him. Worst of all, Lennon simply ignores him. Knowing what is to come, watching Lennon waltz with his wife instead of performing with his bandmates is like watching the two of them dance on McCartney's grave. 
> 
> The film's lasting merit is in the studio performance of McCartney's _magnum opus_ , the ravishing anthem that gives the film and album their title. Look into the eyes and soul of Paul McCartney as he performs the song that will live on after him, and weep for the loss of such a towering genius. God rest Paul McCartney. God rest The Beatles. 

Ringo poured himself another double scotch, not bothering to say good night to everyone else as the party came to a silent halt. 

***


	3. George

> New Musical Express  
>  April 9, 1971 
> 
> It's been a year since the music world lost Paul McCartney. 
> 
> We've seen the release of the final Beatles project, "Let it Be" - the album far exceeds the merits of the film - as well as their tribute EP entitled "Four Last Songs." The four solo albums that debuted in the last year have been fascinating, from McCartney's self-titled, self-performed view into his tormented psyche, to Ringo Starr's gentler "Sentimental Journey." John Lennon, already infamous for the unlistenable "Two Virgins," delved deeper into his relationship with Yoko Ono in "Plastic Ono Band," which showed how unfocused his abrasive style becomes when it's bereft of McCartney's mellowing touch. 
> 
> But the standout album is George Harrison's. The "quiet Beatle" released his back catalogue of songs to give us "All Things Must Pass," which is masterful indeed. It beggars belief that The Beatles kept refusing these gems on their studio albums. George is on his own now, and he's definitely the ex-Beatle to watch.
> 
> It's also been a year of legal wrangling. McCartney's estate has only recently been settled. The bulk of that estate, estimated at over thirty million pounds, was settled on his wife and daughters, with generous provisions for his father and brother as well as large bequests to a number of charities. 
> 
> Among those listed in the will are his former bandmates. George Harrison, a childhood friend before the band was formed, was given McCartney's collection of guitars and basses. The recording and percussion equipment in McCartney's homes and studio was left to Ringo Starr.
> 
> McCartney, twenty-seven years old at the time of his death, set aside two million pounds for Cynthia Lennon, ex-wife of Beatle John Lennon, with the stipulation that half be kept in trust for the Lennons' son, Julian. This was a source of contention, as it was far more than Mrs. Lennon received in her divorce settlement. Lennon's second wife, conceptual artist Yoko Ono, attempted to sue the estate for the damage done to their home when Mr. McCartney took his own life on the front steps, but the suit was thrown out of court. McCartney's widow, Linda Eastman McCartney, decried Ono's action as being both frivolous and cruel. 
> 
> John Lennon's legacy from his former writing partner was a reel-to-reel tape. The contents of the tape are unknown.

***

George did not consider himself a vindictive man. He had a streak of bitterness in him, to be sure, and he enjoyed _schadenfreude_ more than was healthy for someone so concerned with his karmic burden, but overall he enjoyed the freedom that came with forgiving people. 

The exception was with his music, specifically his song-writing. He knew he'd been years behind the curve when he started, but had grown into a confident and prolific writer whose work was perpetually shoved aside for the Lennon/McCartney juggernaut. Hearing that he was considered "the ex-Beatle to watch" gave him more joy than was seemly. 

Tough, he thought as he began to clear the tulip bed. After waiting so many years, always trotting behind John-and-Paul like an eager puppy, it was his turn to stand in the spotlight. He smiled as his fingers pulled away dead leaves to let the little green buds enjoy the early spring sunshine. 

Maybe that was why he loved gardening so much; he felt a kinship with the tiny shoots of plants that just needed a bit of nurturing to become full-blown and beautiful. 

Sitting on his heels, George surveyed the colors in the spring garden. His eyes were drawn, as they always were, to the thicket of blood-red roses that flourished over Paul's grave. He and Pattie had taken care of them through the long winter, and Maureen joined in once baby Lee was old enough to be left with their housekeeper for a few hours. 

She seemed to spend more time at Friar Park than at her own home these days. Given the state of Ringo's alcohol intake, George and Pattie could hardly blame her. She had lost much of her sparkle in the last few months, confiding in Pattie that the children were the only reason she hadn't just packed up and left.

George reminded himself to have a chat with Ringo this afternoon. The thought gave him a pain that radiated from the base of his skull down to his shoulders. He hadn't talked to Ringo or John much since the hideous "Let it Be" premiere; in fact, the three "surviving Beatles" hadn't all been in the same room since that night. 

Pattie walked briskly into the garden, bearing a large glass of lemonade. "Thought you might need this," she said as she handed it to George. 

He nodded his thanks as he rose and took a long sip. "Perfect. Need any help in the house?" 

"No, thanks, love, Maureen's here and we have it all under control." 

"Including Ringo?" 

Pattie sighed. "We're watering down the drinks and making him eat something with each glass." 

"Good girl." George gave her a hug and kissed her temple. "It'll be okay. Yoko's in New York, so at least we don't have to worry about her. John and Linda are actually getting on well, so as long as we can keep Ringo vertical, we're gonna be fine. I'll drag him off with me while I get cleaned up." 

John had incurred Yoko's wrath by refusing to participate in the attempted lawsuit. "Christ, haven't we sued the hell out of everyone already?" he had griped at George the night Yoko threw him out of the house. George patiently reminded John who actually owned the house and told him to go home and be a fucking man. 

Okay, so maybe not patiently. 

He finished the lemonade, suddenly thirsty for something much stronger, and followed Pattie back in the house. He found Maureen putting some tiny food on even smaller toothpicks. She waved at him but her smile looked forced.

When George saw Ringo, he realized why. 

Already three sheets to the wind, Ringo was stumbling around the kitchen, muttering something under his breath about Paul. George and Pattie glanced at one another. "Linda's not here yet," Pattie whispered. "Can you sober him up a bit, before...?"

George nodded. "C'mon, Ritchie, stop whinging and help me pick out something suitable to wear." 

"What you've got on's good enough," Ringo slurred. "You look like a gravedigger. You were a better gravedigger than he deserved." 

Shit. 

George marched Ringo upstairs, to the enormous bedroom he and Pattie shared. He pushed Ringo down on the edge of the bed and put his finger in Ringo's face. "If you have something you need to get off your chest, best do it now. I won't have you talking rubbish about Paul in front of Linda. Is that clear?" 

"You're starting to sound just like 'im." Ringo's bleary blue eyes tracked George as he paced around the room, picking up trousers and a shirt. "Turning into a bossy son-of-a-bitch. Just 'cause he's dead don't mean he's perfect." 

George sighed. He didn't disagree in principle with what Ringo was saying. He'd anticipated a wellspring of sympathy for Paul because of the way his life had ended, but the canonizing of the man did make him roll his eyes more often than he should. 

He used Pattie's bathroom to change quickly, not wanting to leave Ringo unsupervised. When he came back out, Ringo was slumped forward, staring glassily at his shoes. George crouched in front of him and waved a hand in front of his face. "Hey. You in there?" 

Ringo nodded. A fat tear worked its way from his eye down his cheek, plopping down on the leg of his trousers. "I don't really hate him, y'know."

"I know." George patted his knee. "Let's get some coffee in you before everyone else turns up, eh? You don't want John seeing you like this." 

"Why not?" 

It was a fair question. George wasn't sure if John and Ringo had spoken more than twice in the last few months, other than business meetings to dissolve Apple, dispose of Allen Klein, and sign off on the end of The Beatles. 

"Not sure. Keep the girls happy, then, that enough for you?"

"I suppose." Ringo hoisted himself upright and followed George back to the kitchen. Maureen handed him a cup of hot, black coffee. He grimaced at it but began to take tentative sips. 

Linda had appeared whilst George and Ringo were out of the room. She looked much better than she had at the film premiere - although it would have been hard for her to look worse - and she accepted George's hug with a warm embrace of her own. Maureen quickly asked about Linda's girls, and Linda asked about the Starrs' brood, and as they chatted George could see Pattie's face getting sadder and more serious by the moment. 

She was seeing a specialist now, getting injections of Lord-knows-what to try and help her conceive, but so far there had been nothing but disappointment and heartache. George was proud that she kept up such a brave face most of the time. The moments when her poise slipped and her longing for a child overcame her, hurt George more than he cared to admit. 

He didn't have long to ponder, however, as a loud shout of "I've brought the champers!" announced John's arrival. 

John looked good, for the first time in a year. Newly-shaven and shorn - sporting a haircut surprisingly like the one Paul had been wearing during the "Magical Mystery Tour" days - and without Yoko on his arm, he seemed in better spirits than George could remember. John produced several bottles of Dom Perignon and placed them proudly on the table. 

"Paul's favorite," Linda said approvingly. "That's sweet, John, thank you." 

"You're welcome. Yoko sends her love, by the way." 

Maureen tried and failed to turn her snort into a cough. 

"So, John," Pattie said, far too brightly, "you two are moving to New York in a couple of weeks? How exciting!"

"Yeah. Yoko found us a group of flats in an old building off Central Park. It's where Mia filmed 'Rosemary's Baby,' great old pile of a place. It's called the Dakota. Yoko says it's very, very safe."

Maureen shivered. "Ugh, that movie gave me the creeps. I don't know if I could stand to live there." 

"Much less with Yoko," Ringo put in. John didn't get angry or laugh at him, but the thin veneer of normalcy on his face gave way to the haunted look George had seen far too often.

Pattie brought champagne flutes and handed them around. George faffed with the cork until he finally popped it out with a triumphant cry. He poured a liberal amount into all the glasses but Ringo's, earning him a sour look. "Should we go on out, then?" he asked. 

They filed into the garden. The gravel path to the lodge-turned-chapel crunched beneath their feet as they made their silent way towards the magnificent roses. Linda took a deep breath. "It's even more beautiful now, George. You've done a wonderful job." 

"I had Pattie and Mo to help," he said, winking at his wife and his friend. 

"I love working out here." Maureen's voice was soft and thoughtful. "It's so peaceful." 

Linda nodded. She was carrying a canvas tote bag, from which she pulled a small marble statue. "It's a blackbird," she said softly. "The girls picked it out." 

"How lovely," Pattie said warmly. She helped Linda clear a space for it, just beneath a spray of perfect red roses. "George, love? You want to go first?" 

He didn't, because he wasn't sure his voice would hold out, but he held up his glass anyway. "So. It's been a year now, and we miss you so much." He took a deep breath, letting it out the way Maharishi had taught him. "Thank you, Paulie, for making me play 'Raunchy' on that bus, for convincing our John that I was worth being in his group. I love you. Hare Krishna. To Paul!" 

They chimed in, "To Paul!" and everyone turned to Ringo. 

George's heart beat quickly as Ringo sloshed some champagne around in his glass. "I'm sorry you're gone," he said thickly. "I wish I'd told you..." he stopped, unable to continue, but he raised his glass anyway and the others followed suit. 

"Paul had the face of an angel," Maureen piped up. 

"Looks can be deceiving," was Linda's quick answer, earning a chuckle from everyone but John, who looked at her with infinite melancholy in his eyes. 

"He had the soul of a poet and a voice straight from Heaven," John said to Linda. "I'll never be the same without him." 

As he listened to John's voice, George wondered what might have been different if John had ever, ever, said that to Paul. 

"John," Linda whispered, "don't be so hard on yourself. He wouldn't have wanted you to suffer." 

George winced. If Paul hadn't wanted John to suffer, then why had he... 

No. He wasn't going to remember Paul in the morgue. That was just a shell, the shell that was covered in sweet roses planted by George's own hands. He was going to remember Paul laughing onstage at Shea Stadium. Loving and loved. 

Linda leaned closer to John. "Don't believe the press; they're being hard on you just because you survived" she said as he covered his eyes with his hand. 

The group fell awkwardly silent save for the slight hitch in John's breathing. George raised his glass one last time and drained it. "Bless you, Paul. We're glad you came along." 

"I love you, darling boy," Linda said. She leaned over and touched the head of the statue. "George, Pattie, thank you again. I need...I just can't..." 

"It's all right, Linda," Pattie assured her. "Let me walk you to your car." 

"In a minute. Wait." Linda fumbled in her bag, pulled out an envelope, and handed it to John. "These are the pictures of you with Mary, the night of the movie. I thought you'd like to have them." 

If she had given him a million pounds, he couldn't have looked more grateful. George watched him put the envelope in the pocket of his jacket as Linda walked away, arm in arm with Pattie. 

Stumbling, Ringo muttered, "Good on us, we made the widow cry." 

"I'm going to put you to bed," George said firmly. He shoved Ringo inside and upstairs to the bedroom farthest from his. "Stay here. Unless you have to throw up, in which case use the loo." Without waiting for a response he slammed the door behind him and went back to the kitchen. 

Maureen was leaning over the sink. At first George thought she was washing the glasses, then he realized that she was simply standing there and crying as water gushed from the tap. 

"Mo?" 

She waved him away, her back to him, but he came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. She turned around. Her face was pale and her mascara was running down her face in coal-black rivulets. "I'm sorry you had to see that. And today, of all days." 

"No, it's fine. You can say anything, do anything, it's all fine." 

She shook her head. "It's the tip of the iceberg, what he's doing today. At home it's ten times as bad. He'll go the whole day without saying a word, then suddenly he'll let loose with a laundry list of things I don't do right." 

"Like what?" George asked, still holding onto her shoulders. 

"Oh, I don't cook right, I don't keep the baby quiet enough, the boys smell like sweat. Sometimes--well, almost every day--he complains that I haven't lost the baby weight yet. He says I'm a 'fucking great cow' and he can't stand to look at me." 

"Mo..." 

"No, it's true, I haven't lost the weight like I did with Jason and Zak. I don't know why, I really don't." She lifted her arm to wipe her eyes and her sleeve rode up.

George's vision swam, tinged with furious red. 

There was a ring of bruises around Maureen's wrist.

"Fuck! I'll fucking end him!" he declared. He took a step toward the bedroom stairs but Maureen grabbed him by the sleeve.

"Don't George, please. He's off his head. Between Paul and the end of the band--" 

"I'm off my head for the same reasons, and you don't see me hitting a woman over it!"

It was Maureen's turn to hold George by the shoulders. "Please. Not now. I'm sorry I said anything. Let's take a walk, cool off a bit." 

He looked into her dark eyes, ringed with ruined makeup, and tamped down his anger for her sake. "I'm still gonna thump him," he growled, but he managed a weak smile as he followed her outside. 

George didn't intend to go to Paul's roses, but they ended up there anyway. Maureen sagged to the ground beside the little marble blackbird while George paced and kicked gravel.

"I think about it a lot," Maureen whispered. "About getting his hair just right, and making sure you couldn't see the makeup they were putting on him. How cold he was, and what he'd look like in ten years, and sometimes I wake myself up crying." 

George stopped in his tracks. He'd had the same feelings, had wondered if he might be going insane. "I do, too. Pattie says I cry through the dreams sometimes. And sometimes I start screaming."

"I don't regret it, though. If Linda'd had to see him all pale and messed up...I just wish I could put it out of my head somehow." 

"I know." George looked down at his scuffed shoes. "I'd have done more, if I'd known. Sure, I did this." He waved at the little chapel and the brilliant roses. "But it's all too late. We can't help him now. Well, my mum's trying.." 

Maureen cocked her head and raised her eyebrow. 

"She goes to Sacred Heart every single day, first thing in the morning, and she lights a candle for Paul. Her dander's up because the priest said Paul's in Hell for committing suicide, so she's on a single-handed crusade to bypass a thousand years of Catholic tradition and save Paul's immortal soul."

"I think that's sweet," Maureen said softly. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and guileless. "Do you think Paul's in Hell?" 

"No. But then I don't believe in Hell anymore, Mo." He sat down beside her and folded his legs in a yoga pose. "But if there's a Hell, it's here on earth and John's the one who's in it right now." 

Tears began to stream down Maureen's face again. "I think I'm right there with him," she choked out. 

"Ah, Maureen, don't, don't..." He didn't mean to, would swear for years and years afterwards that it hadn't been a conscious decision, but he took her chin in his hand, tilted her face toward his, and kissed her. 

And kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, and she returned each one. When he leaned forward and placed his hand on the ground, he accidentally crushed a fallen rose and its thorn pierced his thumb. Maureen took his hand and brought it to her lips, kissing away the blood. 

Maureen was soft in his arms. Her body, full and fecund, round of breast and belly, surged against his until he was lost in her. He caressed her, lips still seeking hers, bringing his hand lower and lower until he heard her gasp and moan. 

At the moment Maureen came against his fingers, George opened his eyes and saw John staring at him through the window of the chapel. He turned away from the accusing gaze and found himself face-to-face with Pattie, her blue eyes wide with horror. Her wedding band gleamed in the evening sunlight as she covered her open mouth. 

"Oh, shit, shit," George heard Maureen pant as she tried to get up. 

Pattie turned and ran, her shoes scarcely seeming to touch the gravel path. George stood, hunching over as he vainly attempted to hide the bulge in his trousers, and watched John emerge from the chapel like an avenging angel. 

John completely ignored Maureen. He strode over to George and poked him in the chest with a thin finger. "I saw. I saw everything. And it's incest, son, plain and simple."

He turned on his heel and followed Pattie. George, his face flushed with lust and shame in equal measure, gazed after them. He was lost. Everything was lost. 

Maureen managed to get to her feet. She backed away from George. He heard a thorn catch on her dress. 

"What are we going to do?" she asked him. 

He couldn't answer. He looked around the grounds of his home, seeing it as if for the first time. The gargoyles seemed to mock him. The flag atop the tall tower looked lower, as if it were trying to hide from him. 

No – it actually was lower. George squinted and shielded his eyes with his hand. John was up there, with Pattie, and they were removing the "Om" flag. Pattie affixed something to the rope and John hoisted it. 

It was the skull and crossbones Eric Idle had given him as a joke last Halloween.

Pattie ran down the tower stairs. George could hear her agonized weeping and his heart nearly broke. He started toward the house but Maureen held him back. "Give her a minute. Oh my God, Pattie...George..."

Maureen. 

He couldn't help himself. He kissed her again, softly, and when he turned around he saw John on the edge of the tower, his middle finger jabbing angrily upward. 

A cool breeze wafted the scent of roses back to him. He closed his eyes and inhaled. When he looked down, he saw that his hand had begun to bleed again.

***

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you are easily triggered and need to know everything upsetting about the story in advance, here is the information that can't be placed at the beginning without spoiling the story.
> 
> S  
> P  
> O  
> I  
> L  
> E  
> R  
> S
> 
> A  
> H  
> E  
> A  
> D
> 
> S  
> P  
> O  
> I  
> L  
> E  
> R  
> S  
> The aftermath of a suicide is felt by all the characters, leading to angst and arguments.  
> A miscarriage is discussed but no details are given.  
> An attempted grave robbery occurs but no corpse is in the coffin.  
> A burial service is briefly described.  
> Marital violence occurs but is not graphic.  
> Infidelity occurs.  
> Brief description, non-graphic, of "laying-out," i.e., preparing a body for burial.


End file.
